


Fantasy Mirrors Desire

by Meowbowwow



Series: The Smut Tales Of 221B [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothes Kink, M/M, PWP, Suit!porn, but not rly, mirror!porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The detective simply planted himself on him, shuddering in a feral manner and rubbing his wet face on his chest, he wrapped his legs around John. After making some more eccentric moves, as quickly as he had come, he got up, shook his hair like a cat and traipsed back to his room. It took John a second to realise what had happened but then it hit him in the form of a wet patch smack in the middle of his chest – Sherlock had just dried himself off on John."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasy Mirrors Desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [life_as_an_angel_condom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/life_as_an_angel_condom/gifts).



> It's Cy's birthday and she's my perfect little dick bro, so this one's for her.

 

Sherlock’s views about clothes were extreme, to say the least. He either preferred to not wear them (that is how he lived before John when times were good and jolly) or he would dress up in bespoke clothes that reeked of posh. However, after he became besotted with a certain army doctor, not only did he start noticing clothes (in the extreme sense of the word ‘notice’ that applies to Sherlock) but he started to develop a preference towards them.

John, on the other hand, considered them to be nothing. That doesn’t mean that he didn’t dress carefully or wore the wrong shirts (jumpers) with the right trousers but he simply didn’t care for them. He loved Sherlock with or without clothes (more with because then he got to strip him off and occasionally got to witness a show, ahem). He loved the comfort of his old jumpers and didn’t care if people mistook him to be Mrs Hudson’s brother when they saw him from afar. Doctor John Watson didn’t care about such banal things. That was before he found out about the roving gaze of his boyfriend; of the slight breathlessness with which he followed the creases on his shirt and of the gulp which escaped his cupid bowed lips when the tie slithered off John’s neck and landed on the couch. He would never jump on John when the man was getting dressed or undressed. It was like a quiet meditation for Sherlock and proved to be an endless source of amusement to John.

But you must be wondering how the obsession grew because like everything with Sherlock, this was in equal measures sudden and glacial in its emergence, it sort of loomed over the detective’s Mind Palace before it crashed in and emerged victorious from the rubble of the pantry (that’s not an exaggeration). There isn’t any fixed beginning of it. As friends, Sherlock disliked John’s choice in clothes. As lovers, initially, he disliked John in clothes and left no stone unturned to getting him out of them.

Having been touch starved for so long, he found the brush of skin on skin fascinating, it was his cigarette but soon, he found his cocaine. _John Watson in clothes. Clothes over John Watson. John Watson. Clothes._ No matter how many ways he said it in his mind, no matter how many stairs of the palace he stumbled down thinking of a freshly showered doctor in Sherlock’s robe, Sherlock didn’t tire of the idea. It would sleep for a while and then the whiff of something as mundane as Mrs Hudson’s strawberry jam or NSY’s old files would stir it again. It was a problem but it really wasn’t because suddenly, Sherlock wasn’t bored. And knowing John, he wouldn’t ever be bored.

And John did eventually find out about it, it was even before Sherlock realised which really says something. It was a normal day, John had to go to work and Sherlock had to take a shower because “it’s been three days, Sherlock!” and, well, yeah. It was chilly and John put on his most comfortable jumper and settled on the couch with his coffee. He would have chosen his comfortable armchair had there not been a huge bag of something-he-didn’t-want-to-look-inside on it and so, the couch won. Also, had he chosen the couch, he wouldn’t have found out about the goings-on in his lover’s psyche. So, as he put his finished mug of coffee on the table and spread his newspaper in front on him, the familiar smell of bergamot and mahogany greeted him and kept getting closer till the newspaper was pushed out of his hand and a very wet detective pinned him on the couch with his lanky body.

Grinning to himself, John expected his clothes to be pulled off; or at least a rain of kisses on his exposed neck. None came. The detective simply planted himself on him, shuddering in a feral manner and rubbing his wet face on his chest, he wrapped his legs around John. After making some more eccentric moves, as quickly as he had come, he got up, shook his hair like a cat and traipsed back to his room. It took John a second to realise what had happened but then it hit him in the form of a wet patch smack in the middle of his chest – Sherlock had just dried himself off on John. In any other case, John would have been annoyed because, well, favourite jumper, getting late for office etcetera but this time, he just giggled and when Sherlock came back, his crimson robe pulled tightly over him, John pulled him closer and brushed the lint off his hair and then kissed him on the cheek before rushing off to change, leaving Sherlock in a confused state.

It happened again the next day but it was an off day for John and so, he was not only ready but pretty well prepared to deal with whatever and whoever was thrown at him. Sherlock appeared seconds later and repeated his performance from the previous morning. This time John was sitting on his armchair and the detective straddled his lap, dripping wet and shivering because of the cool air. John got up and lifted him from his arse and they both landed on the couch. He then proceeded to lick every drop on his lover’s body, kissing and biting his way and when he was pleased with the semi-hard state of his detective, he let Sherlock flip them over and they rutted against each other until the morning was all about groans and their second shower, together this time.

So, slowly, John started using it to his advantage (for Sherlock’s well-being more than his but he cannot deny that he loved it). He would coax the detective to bed by walking out naked from the shower picking up Sherlock’s dressing gown from the back of the couch (quite enjoying the small gasp coming from Sherlock’s mouth) and slipping it on. He would then hover over him and gently suck on his lobe before pulling him into the room and letting him snuggle against him. Sherlock always enjoyed pulling the knot in the belt slowly, the rustle quieter than the night as he let it fall open and wrapped his arms around the damn torso, relishing the feel of his warm skin against the cool breath of John. And just like that, with a little work and lots of gentle prodding, Sherlock would fall asleep, his face on the lapel of his gown that now smelled like John and he would positively purr when he woke up like that. Sometimes, they would lie next to each other for hours on evenings, John wearing nothing but his softest cotton shirts and boxers and Sherlock shifting like a satiated house cat on top of him.

And then there was the day when it became as clear as daylight for Sherlock. It was a lovely evening and Sherlock had been off to the morgue throughout the day because there were seven fresh dead bodies, all dying from the same symptoms and Molly had _accidentally_ let slip that she would be doing the post-mortems. So, Sherlock was on it, if he were to be truthful, he’d say that he hadn’t been this excited since the case of the taxi driver but living with John for so long had taught him that one did not voice such opinions out loud. Hence, only Molly and John were privy to his declaration. After a successful (and fun) day at the morgue, he was actually tired and quite hungry, so he messaged John to pick up some Chinese on his way back from work and made Mrs Hudson very happy when he sat with her and practically inhaled the tea and the five jammie dodgers.

“What’s that sound? John must be home, I’ll be off Mrs Hudson!”  
“He’s been home for quite some time now, dear.”  
“What? Really?”

He bounded up the stairs two at a time and pushed the door open to be greeted by spaghetti and a very dressed up John Watson. John was wearing a deep blue suit, Sherlock hadn’t seen it on him before but it was perfect because for once, it fit John like it had been made for him. The cut and style seemed familiar and Sherlock realised-

“Mycroft. Anniversary gift,” John smiled, undoing the button and doing a small turn for the benefit of Sherlock who was watching him with his mouth open. For once, he really was thankful to that diet freak cake-wolfing brother of his. John raised an eyebrow, reading his mind. Slowly, the word “anniversary” registered somewhere in there and he racked his brains for any hints about whether he had saved this date or not. Apparently, he had not but John had.

“Oh, it’s alright, I didn’t expect you to,” John smiled, kissing him chastely on the lips and motioning towards the couch where dinner was ready. He had debated whether he wanted it to be a proper date kind of dinner but the sheer size of Sherlock’s experiments on the kitchen table put him off it. However, he had taken a half day off from the clinic and come home early to satisfy his traditionalist sentiments and Sherlock didn’t seem put-off by the show, so all in all he was happy.

They ate their food in silence, sipping the wine and talking about the usual stuff – the seven bodies and the symptoms. John was able to guess and point at the right answer in nine tries and that seemed to please Sherlock a lot. And when they were done with the food and the plates were put away and Sherlock buried his nose in the nape of John’s neck, John turned and let himself be waltzed around the house without music, just to the sound of London’s traffic and the sudden rain. Sherlock’s hands slowly caressed the fabric of the jacket and he mused on the colour of the perfect blue that brought out John’s eyes (and Sherlock was forced to thank Mycroft for his perfect choice again). He brushed invisible lint off the shoulders and traced John’s strong back with his hands, pulling him closer as he manoeuvred them around the coffee table, undoing the buttons ever so slowly. He carefully removed it and placed it on the chair.

“Fuck me with your clothes on, John please,” he pushed him against the wall, rubbing their groins against each other as if to prove how turned on he was. John was so hard, he could come from just the way Sherlock whimpered against him, hot and sweating as his hand rested on John’s crisp white shirt.  
“Oh, I intend to, fuck” -he unzipped Sherlock’s trouser and squeezed his cock- “you” -the button from his trouser broke and fell on the floor without a sound- “so” -Sherlock’s trousers landed on the floor, pooling against his ankles- “hard!” He pulled the silk boxers down and groaned as his lips were assaulted by warm gasping lips, graceful fingers still running all over him, cupping his erection once through his trousers before he slapped the hand trying to undo his belt away.

“Last surprise for you… for us. Bedroom,” he couldn’t help but kiss the detective again, deeply this time as he tasted marinara and wine and so much need in that kiss. Sherlock always fell headfirst into a kiss, he pushed his everything into it and John loved it.

There, in the bedroom’s corner was a full size mirror, plain in design but huge in size; and another two of similar sizes on the other two accessible walls. John stopped Sherlock’s deductions right in his head as he dragged him and pinned him against himself on the wall adjacent to the mirror so that as John’s hand traced Sherlock’s bare ass, Sherlock saw it, saw his own flushed semi naked form against John’s fully clothed one and groaned loudly as his neck was nipped by a practiced mouth.

The lube was retrieved from the drawer and fingers were slicked but Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the mirror, he followed the careful stretch of the fabric as John reached out for the drawer, it seemed to be flowing on his skin, it was his skin. Sherlock unbuttoned the cuff and gently folded the shirt kissing the wrist once as John squirted some lube in his palms and Sherlock unzipped his trousers and pulled his pants down. John seemed frozen, watching their reflections, Sherlock’s brows knitted in concentration and that lovely ass half covered with his shirt.

He pulled the detective against him again, kissing the words out of him as his index finger traced the crack of his arse before parting the cheeks and settling against his hole. Sherlock let out a low sound and rested his open lips against John’s forehead and tearing his eyes away from the mirror on their side only to catch the reflection from the mirror right behind him on the one in front of him. He saw his own conscious and uncontrolled whimpering as John teased the hole for a while and pushed the finger in, Sherlock swallowing him as he gulped at the sight of the finger disappearing inside him.

It was hotter than anything they had ever tried, watching his hips move gently and John’s finger fuck him oh so slowly. And then the second one went in and Sherlock couldn’t help but close his eyes as John scissored them, his other arm supporting Sherlock’s weight leaning on him. As he retrieved his fingers to slick his own erection that had been brushing painfully against Sherlock’s, the detective pulled him towards himself with his tie and they fell on the bed, mouths hungry and kisses loud and sloppy. John kicked his trousers and his shoes went with it.

“On your back, John.”  
“Oh god yes!”

John’s cock sank inside him, his hand resting on his waist as Sherlock rode him hard. When he started getting tired, John rolled them over and fucked him painfully slowly first and hard later, Sherlock’s hand moving between them till John was hitting his prostate and the detective clenched beautifully around him before spilling on John’s shirt. John came a few seconds later, pushed over the edge with the gasp of his own name and the hands digging into his flesh.

They stayed there was minutes or maybe hours, hearing the rain die slowly on the pavement outside. Every breath was tangible and this was John’s favourite part about sex, so he let it flow. Sherlock’s hand traced the creases they had made on John’s perfect shirt, fingers smoothing them and nails running under the creases as if to memorise their pattern and freeze them forever.

“I should wear this suit more often.”  
“And I should be nicer to Mycroft. Both these things are equally dangerous to the society in general.”  
“Yeah,” John laughed as he shucked his spoilt shirt on the floor and started cleaning the mess as Sherlock watched him from every angle possible, sighing and chuckling at regular intervals, probably lost in his mind again.

The mirror stayed for a long time and Sherlock conceded that even he could not have thought of a better present. 


End file.
